


a friend of the devil

by spidye



Category: Robin Hood (2018)
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Near Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidye/pseuds/spidye
Summary: Every now and then, Death befriends a few of her victims. When he's wounded in the revolt against the Sheriff, Robin sees her again.





	a friend of the devil

**Author's Note:**

> there's no way robin could have taken an arrow to the heart and just walked it off like he did, so here's an alternate take. excludes marian bc i'm allergic to hets. my twitter changed, [here's my new account!](http://twitter.com/spideiing)

Robin has never been in this much pain in his whole life.

Not when he fell from the second story of the manor as a boy; not when he was nearly trampled to death by a loose stallion; and not even in Syria, where the splinters of wood tore at his face and hands while the enemy arrows volleyed down on his squad.

 _Why’d you have to think of Syria_ , he scolds himself, but it’s too late. He’s done his best to keep a tight rein on the memories of the crusade, but right now, with blood pooling in the back of his throat, it’s easy to get carried away by the flashback. Overhead, the sparks that wander through the air turn to dust, and the grey sky turns to blue, and his leather jacket turns to armor. The clamor of the fighting from the level above him is identical; metal on metal, shouting, hoarse cries of pain. But louder than any of this is the silence of death, who appears in a form so visceral that Robin can picture her walking through the battle above, he can’t quite remember which battle, or why he’s beneath it, besides that he must be in hell. _Yes, that’s it,_ he decides, _I’m already in hell and she’s going to forget to take me._

Robin first saw her when his mother died. He was only six years old, and when he peered through the crack in the door to watch the doctor speak to his father, he had seen his mother sitting on the edge of the bed, holding hands with a woman clothed in black. His mother had smiled to him, but when he blinked, both of them were gone already.

When he had asked his father who the other woman was, he had said that there was no one else in the room.

He’d seen her in Syria — countless times, shaking hands with dead men, whispering songs to corpses. He had never interacted with her until John’s son was to be executed; and then, he had charged at her with everything he had. _Should have known better than to try and kill Death herself._

Robin is nearly paralyzed by the pain, legs gone cold in shock, hot blood oozing from the wound in his chest. The crossbow must have not been loaded properly, because he can feel the wound, just deep enough to terrify him, just shallow enough that his heart is pounding painlessly in his chest, steadily pumping blood out of the torn flesh over his heart and down his arm and into the dirt and _oh god I’m going to bleed out here_. He thrashes, or he thinks he does— his leg straightens stiffly, and he doesn’t move much more than that. In his mind, he’s gotten up and fired an arrow in return by now, and there’s no more threat and he’s getting away and he’ll be safe in the forest. But then his fists curl into dirt, and Robin realizes that he’s still on the ground, and he’s probably not going to get up, not with that arrow lodged in his chest.

The arrow shouldn’t have gotten him. Everything had gone too fast, and he hadn’t expected it, and he hadn’t moved his feet quick enough. If he had been fast enough, he’d be scot free by now. If he had been fast enough, John’s son would still be alive. But he’s here, with a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest, staring at the still-burning hole in the floor above him. It always seems to happen like this. The crossfire always seems to get him, though it shouldn’t. He shouldn’t have been shot in Syria, but he was. The money got away, but he didn’t.

Syria rushes back to his mind again, this time with painful immediacy, and he can hear the screams of the men being shot down all around him. He squeezes his eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop his heart from lurching painfully in his chest, and he swears he can feel the tip of the arrow bite into the tissue of the muscle. Robin gasps at that feeling, and his chest heaves weakly. Bile burns the back of his throat, but he hasn’t the energy to throw up, and he knows he’ll choke on the vomit. He has to breathe. Breathing is important. The medics always enforced breathing among the droves of injured crusaders that flooded their med tents, but this urgency is different, encouraged by a different memory.

“You never _breathe_ ,” John had spat, eyes narrowed with intensity. “You inhale and hold it like it’s the last breath you’re ever gonna take. You shoot like that and you won’t last a minute when you’re fighting for your life. Understand?” He pressed the bow into Robin’s chest, coaxed the younger’s fingers to curl around the hilt. “Inhale when you draw. Exhale when you loose. —Inhale to live. Exhale to kill. Breathe, Robin.”

He arches his back at the memory’s command to breathe, trying to angle his body to allow the cold oxygen to burn his lungs, but the wheel of the downed treasury cart digs into his spine and the air doesn’t even get past his throat. He coughs, sputters. Blood flecks his lips. “Can’t,” he whimpers to John, who isn’t there. His chin quivers, and the throbbing pain in the wound only worsens when his chest is wracked with a quiet sob.

This is where it dies, then. Robin Hood.

As far as Robin is concerned, Robin of Loxley died in Syria, though he’s not sure when. Perhaps he died when the Sheriff read his name among the death tolls. Perhaps he died along with John’s son. _His son, oh —_  the memory rushes to Rob’s mind, and he gives a quiet noise of horror, prompted into movement to inspect his scarf — John’s scarf, it belonged to his son, it’ll be ruined by now, absolutely drenched with blood. “No,” he murmurs, “no—”

His hands fumble at his collar, struggling to pull the blue garment from where it’s safely tucked, but he’s too weak to pull it all the way out, and his hands are shaking and he can feel his heart pounding, fighting to keep his body from going all the way cold. He grunts, panic bubbling in his gut and overriding the shock. He tugs uselessly, trying to see the scarf, trying to make sure it isn’t ruined, it’s the last thing John has of his son’s, he’ll never forgive himself if he’s ruined it —

A hand settles over Robin’s, pulling at the fabric with ease. It comes loose, sliding out of his tunic and allowing a draft of cold air to wash against the now-exposed skin. “No,” he gurgles at the hand, and then his tone pitches into a demand, louder and more adamant. “No, no. Give— give it b- back.” He grabs at the scarf uselessly. The hand pulls it out of his reach, wads the scarf into a ball, and presses it to the area around Robin’s wound, earning a sharp yelp of pain and an attempt to writhe away. But they don’t remove the arrow. Not yet.

The pressure on the wound alone is enough to sting Robin’s eyes, but that’s not the root of his dismay. That’s John’s _scarf_ and they’re using it to try and repair a wound that, frankly, he probably does deserve, and probably won’t survive.

“Please,” he implores, tears welling in his eyes. “Please, it’s n- not mine. You can’t—”

“I’m here, Robin.”

That’s John’s voice. Robin brushes it aside as a memory, though he can’t recall John ever speaking to him in such a soft tone. A hallucination, then. He grips at the hand over his heart, blinking hard to focus on the figure crouched before him, but half a dozen faces float through his mind, and none of them stick. The pain is overwhelming now, and Robin’s chest heaves again, struggling for breath under the weight on his wound. The hand presses harder, and white-hot agony ripples through him, pulling a raw cry from his chest. He allows his head to fall backwards, dropping against the treasury cart’s wheel with a thunk, and his glazed eyes roam the sky above. He sucks in a weak, rattling breath.

“You’re fading,” says John, or what Robin wishes were John. _It can’t be John. They killed him. He’s dead because of me._ Still, the pressure eases for a second, and the hand reaches up to cradle his neck and prop his head upright. “Stay with me, Robin.”

Robin tries to focus on the figure, but the only things he can see are two dead men: his father, and John. Somehow, their faces seem the same, and when Robin tries to think about it, their voices are the same, too. He never did know his father very well. It strikes him that he and John won’t go to the same heaven, nor the same hell, and he wishes more than ever that he could have seen John one more time before the next life. His lips quiver for a moment, and he tries to say John’s name, but the only thing he can manage is “father—” before a sob seizes his chest. His breath hitches, he can taste metal, and his eyes are still turned upward, but the apology spills out unbidden, like the blood from his wound. “Sorry,” he cries softly, “I t- tried, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Look at me, boy,” and the pain in his wound sharpens so severely that Robin nearly throws up. His whole body goes stiff, back arching, fists clenching, and he’s unable to strangle the cry of pain that tears from his throat.

When the haze of white fades from his vision and his breathing has settled into a heavy, ragged rhythm, John’s face comes into sharp focus, hovering just inches from Rob’s. It takes him a moment to process it, but happiness bubbles in Robin’s gut, and he chokes on a weak laugh, mouth spreading into a grin. “You’re— you’re alive,” he cries, and if he had the strength, he’d embrace John in seconds. Instead, his hand can only grip at John’s collar weakly. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” John says. There’s no hint of smile or joy in his eyes. Only fear, urgency. Robin hasn’t seen that look on him since Syria. Since his son, really. His hand is back on the wound now, trying to mop up the blood with the scarf. Robin’s fingers grip weakly at John’s hand, seeking comfort or a relief from the pain.

“Your scarf,” he slurs, and his voice thickens with the effort of speaking. “Stop using your s- scarf, _please_ —”

John’s eyes flick over Robin’s body, assessing him for other damage. He’s sure there are other wounds, but right now, the arrow is the most life threatening. _You did this,_ John thinks, _you brought him into this fight. He was just a boy, and now look at him. He’s scared to die._ The guilt that pangs his chest hurts more than any English arrow ever could. Robin’s still trying to get his hand off the wound, eyes glazing over, blood pooling at the corner of his lips. He sniffles weakly, and a tear tracks down his cheek, cutting through the dirt and blood. “Please,” Robin says, and John feels a wave of fear and anger wash over him.

“Stop whining,” John snaps, looking away from Robin’s face and down to the wound. “You’re helping no one with that.”

Robin’s eyes follow John’s movement almost pleadingly, fearing he’s disappointed him, and he takes a hard, rattling breath. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and his voice pitches up, breaking under the pressure of the sobs building in his throat. “I’m sorry—”

“I said stop!” Robin shrinks away in fear at the command. John’s hand grips Robin’s so tight that Robin winces. “You apologize to me properly when we’re safe. Now, you apologize by keeping your eyes open. Understand, English?”

“Yessir,” Robin whimpers, and John returns his attention to the wound.

He hadn’t meant to be so harsh on the boy. The fighting overhead hasn’t lessened, and their time is running out before the civilians can no longer protect them. His heart is racing, eyes flicking over the wound, trying to judge how deep the arrow is lodged in Robin’s chest. He certainly can’t take it out now; they have to get out of the city first, but Robin is deadweight, and John won’t get anywhere trying to carry him.

When he glances up, Robin’s eyes have slipped shut, and his head is threatening to loll to the side, and John’s heart skips a beat. “Loxley,” he says urgently, shifting forward to cup Robin’s head. “Stay _awake,_ boy.”

The only response from Robin is a dazed flutter of his eyes. John jostles him, demanding his attention. “Don’t do this. Robin,” he pauses, and his throat clamps shut when blood spills from Robin’s mouth and runs over his fingers. It takes him a moment to recover his voice. His tone softens. “Robin— look at me.”

Robin stares at him with half-lidded eyes, vision hazed by pain. The sounds of the battle have since faded, and the only thing in his focus is John. His voice is weak, barely audible. “—’m sorry, father.”

John’s blood goes cold at that.

He murmurs a prayer in Arabic, returning to the wound with a newfound urgency, fumbling to tend to it. The scarf is soaked through, John’s hand is covered in blood, and he can hear the other’s breath rattle every time he inhales. He shifts Robin, who no longer protests at the movement, and props him up so he’ll be able to take a full breath.

“I lost one son to this war,” John says quietly. Robin’s eyes fix on him. “Don’t make me lose another.”

“Trying,” he pants. He winces, and his voice falters with terror. “John, I— I can feel the arrow—”

John nods, stares at the wound. “Then I have to remove it.” He wraps a hand around the arrow’s shaft, but hesitates, taking a few deep breaths. This could kill Robin just as easily as it could save him. The blood loss is what will get him if the arrow is removed and left untended, but if the tip keeps pressing against his heart, it won’t matter a single damn if Robin has all the blood in the world. Another muttered prayer.

“John,” Robin murmurs urgently, not looking at him. His eyes, wide with horror, are locked on something past the other’s head. “ _John!_ ”

By the time John turns, he sees only a blur of movement.

The wooden board meets John’s head with a sickening crack. Blood sprays Robin’s face, and he cries out in protest, but the noise is strangled in the back of his throat. Gisborne is standing over John’s now-limp body, board in hand; blood drips from the ragged nail at the end of the plank and trickles down John’s face.

Robin shoves himself upwards, trying to scramble towards John, adrenaline overriding the pain searing through his heart, but Gisborne plants a foot in Robin’s chest, forcing him to stay down.  “Your lordship,” he says, tilting his head. “So _you’re_ the Hood. Surprised your mediocrity didn’t get the best of you.”

He puts more weight on his foot, and Robin goes rigid, giving a quiet grunt. His eyes flicker between John’s body and Gisborne. “I had— help.”

“What, from this filth?” Gisborne gestures to John and scoffs a laugh. “You let the plague follow you home, Loxley. I’m disappointed.”

“Go to hell,” Robin spits.

A menacing grin splits across Gisborne’s face. “Nah, I'll pass. But _you’re_ about to.”

Robin’s breath catches, and his heart goes cold. He glances down at John again — blood is pooling around his head, which is twisted at an unnatural angle. _Not going to the same place as him,_ he reminds himself, but it doesn’t matter. He grits his teeth and glares up at Gisborne. “Do it, then,” he says. “Finish me— off. What are you w- waiting for?”

“Oh, no. No,” he laughs. “You’re going to a different kind of hell. You’re coming with me.” He leans in, gripping the shaft of the arrow. He gives it a slow twist, and a cry of pain tears itself from Robin’s throat. The twisting slows, and Robin squeezes his eyes shut, teeth clenched, doing his best not to scream. _Stop,_ he wants to plead, _stop, stop it, please—_

And then Gisborne yanks the arrow out.

Robin’s eyes snap open, but he can’t produce a sound any louder than a whimper. His body jerks upward involuntarily as his senses go out: ears ringing, vision white with pain, hands going cold. His mouth hangs open to gasp raggedly, trying to gulp down the frigid air, but all he can taste is metal. His chest shudders, and he can feel the warm blood hemorrhaging from the now-open wound, gushing over the black leather in rivulets that match his heartbeat. His clenched fists loosen as his body goes slack, and he tries to focus, blinks hard to prevent his eyes from glazing over. Gisborne is inches from Robin’s face, speaking slowly to make sure his voice is heard over the pounding of his prey’s heart. “You’re mine now, Loxley.”

But the last thing Robin sees isn’t Gisborne; it’s the spectre of death over his captor’s shoulder.

 

 

 


End file.
